We’ve celebrated the joy of His arrival in Jerusalem. We’ve seen the miracles and the tables over-turned. His feet have been washed by those who love Him, and He’s washed the feet of His beloved – even the one bent on betrayal. He’s taught them all He can, and taken the cup of wrath as His own. He’s stood in the face of swift un-justice. He’s given His spirit into the hands of the Father. He has finished it.
The earth shook, the sky darkened, and the veil tore from the bottom up, exposing the Holy of Holies to the masses. His body has been anointed by the hands that have loved Him. He’s been laid in a tomb meant for another. His shroud is being guarded as a threat to the Roman Empire.
And now, it’s Saturday. As we remember, read the accounts, reflect on what this ancient story means for us, here and now, I see what many are saying: that the earth was still on Saturday. That the air was shrouded – like the corpse of Christ – in silence. That solemnity pressed down on humanity with a weight previously unknown.
But here’s the thing about Holy Saturday:
It wasn’t still. It wasn’t silent.
Birds sang in their trees, looking for mates and food and sun and water. Rabbits scrambled through the underbrush, popping out to nibble any green they found. And people, people kept living. The women fetched water, kneaded bread, held little hands, nursed crying infants. The men bartered in markets, walked back and forth from home to shop to worship, embraced friends and family. People were sick, people fell in love, people sang, people wept. They pressed fruit into oil and wove reeds into baskets. They woke to the rising sun and shod their feet with the very same sandals as the day before. Amid the continuing lies and betrayals and hurts of human life, people kept eating, kept laughing, kept loving.
Yes, the death of Jesus shook the world – the universe bent down low at the cost of loving humanity this much. Yes, those who knew Him were hiding, waiting, breaking. But the rest of the world, the very world and people that Jesus came to save, to rescue, to love, the rest of the world simply kept on.
That’s the thing deployment has taught me – even in the waiting, life keeps going. The world keeps spinning. The sun keeps rising, the stars follow. Even when it feels like all of creation should be holding its breath, it doesn’t. And you have to keep opening your eyes. Get up. Keep breathing. Keep walking around with all these other people who are waiting – in different ways – like you. Like me.
That’s the tragedy of it all – that the whole world should be silent, should be still, should be tensed with the hopeful expectation of what comes next, yearning and straining toward the hope of what a new sunrise will bring. But it isn’t.
The world doesn’t know to wait.
But that’s the grace of it, too. The greatest miracle of the universe is being enacted while we carry on, while we keep putting one tired foot in front of another. While we keep sinning, God keeps saving. Even when we don’t know we’re smack in the middle of that rescue, that redemption. It’s happening outside our line of sight, the war being waged on our behalf for our salvation. We’re not even aware of it. But God already is. And Jesus has already won.
That’s the beauty of Holy Saturday. Even when we don’t know that we’re waiting, God is already working it out. Even when the world keeps spinning, and we’re toiling and trudging through weary days of failure and disappointment, Jesus is (presently and on-goingly) already there.
That’s the miracle of Holy Saturday, in the midst of your carrying on, Jesus’ work is finished. All that’s left is for you to go to the tomb and find it empty, for you to see the wounds and know that His love for you outweighs the grave He conquered.
That’s the true waiting this Saturday –
Jesus’ hope, His peace, His fulfilled promise,
His love is waiting
for you.
Jenni Baros 